


Bill Denbrough's New Year Party

by Ribes



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A bunch of angst, All of them are alive, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No IT (King), Bill Denbrough is probably bi but hasn't yet realized it, Demisexual Stan Uris, F/M, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Some requited fluff, They're eighteen, getting drunk on New Year's party, it gets a little dark at one point, lots of swearing, pan Richie Tozier, unrequited shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 11:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13270314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribes/pseuds/Ribes
Summary: «That sounds gay to me.»«Yes, Richie, that’s kind the whole point of it. Thanks for making your brain do the hard work.»«Always here to help my fellow gays, man. Anyway, we need a serious talk about how to make you and Bill hook up this evening. And I have an answer: alcohol.»«Richard, I don’t want to ‘hook up’ with Bill. What does ‘hook up’ even mean? Do you want to ‘hook up’ with Eddie?»«Uhh, yes. And, well, ask him to marry me. But we’re only eighteen so I’ll stick with hooking up and telling him he’s pretty and buying him cornflakes and all that cheesy gay stuff, like beating the shit out of his mum.»





	Bill Denbrough's New Year Party

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's my first work with The Losers Club! I feel honoured to finally get the opportunity to write about these dipshits [fake eye tear], they are a bunch of really interesting people to talk about. I warn you guys: this shot is going to be both fluff and angst. and maybe you'll want to kick something when you reach the end. bruh, that's life.  
> Happy 2018 to y'all, by the way! and sorry if sometimes my english gets quite bad, it's not my native language and I hope what I write is still understandable. Let me know if you've enjoyed the fanfiction!

  
  


 

  
Coming to Bill’s New Year’s Eve party had been the worst decision Stanley Uris had made in 2017. And considering that 2017 had had three-hundred and sixty-four days, that was a damn lot of time.  
  
Now, Stan loved his crew of friends. There was a reason why they had been sticking together since seventh grade, that time when Beverly still had hair falling on her shoulders and almost none of them had yet realized they were queer. That was still a work in progress for some, but Stan couldn’t deny that certain things required time and patience; he himself hadn’t yet come out to the group as demisexual. The point, though, was that they had been through a shit load of things together, good and bad moments: he owed them his own life, and it was not a hyperbolic affirmation.  
  
But in a world with seven milliards inhabitants no one is perfect, and his friends certainly weren’t. They were noisy, or oblivious, or careless: and all three of these qualities showed up the most in those moments when sobriety wasn’t there to keep their feet on the ground. And Stan had asked them, pretty please, to bring only a couple bottles of wine to celebrate 2018, promising them that soda and cola and apple juices were amazing drinks just like vodka shots.  
  
Had they listened to him? Obviously not.  
  
So now, ten minutes to midnight, everyone in Bill’s basement was drunk. Stan included. In the opacity and dullness he was floating in he could still observe that drunkenness meant something different depending on the person it was influencing. Mike being drunk meant him lying cheek down on the floor, counting the pie crumbles beside his face with astonished voice; Ben being drunk meant him swinging on the chair, ranting about how Ron Weasley deserved better recognition by the fans («he’s ginger, just like Bev, that actually makes him a nice peeeerson, o-kay?»); Beverly being drunk meant her dancing around to the notes of some Ariana Grande’s tune Stan honestly knew nothing about, except that a sober Beverly would’ve loathed it. «som’tin bbout you makes me feell like a dangerrrous wwommannn» she singed, dragging the letters around like they were balls of wool.  
  
Balls of wool? How had Stan come up with that metaphor? It didn’t make sense.  
  
«Holy shit, my head feels like an anvil» he mouthed, pressing his fingers on his temples. It was all Richie’s fault, right?  
  
_«Just two shots, man. Two shots and you’ll feel like walking on the clouds. And maybe your crush on Bill will turn out the right way. »_  
_«I’m sorry, my what?»_  
_«Oh right, sorry, I forgot to pretend that I don’t see your heart eyes every time Bill Denbrough breathes or moves a finger. Come on, Stan, I’m your best friend. And I know how crushes work.»_  
  
Damned Richie. The first time he’d met him, Stan was truly convinced he was a complete dumbass. And sometimes Richie managed to keep up to that reputation. All just a well-constructed image to hide the fact that he had a pretty smart mind, and observing eyes behind that pair of enormous square glasses. But that meant that Richie could understand how difficult it was for his friend to talk about Bill. A little bit because of his religion («Mum, sorry I’m late. I just wanted to tell you that I, a Jewish boy, like another boy. What’s for dinner?») and a little bit because of Bill himself.  
  
Richie said that Bill was ninety-nine percent queer. Eddie said that he was questioning, and that it would’ve still taken at least a pair of years, so they shouldn’t pressure him about it. Bill simply didn’t answer when they asked about it. He punched his fists together, made a joke about how his eternal crush was Luke Skywalker, and then found an excuse to leave the room.  
  
_«Okay, Rich, so you know crushes work. Yours is not doing so great though, right?»_  
_«Don’t piss on me, Stan. Eds is head over heels for me.»_  
_«That’s not what you told me a pair of nights ago. Muffling in your pillow that Eddie Kaspbrak hated you with every fiber of his short being.»_  
_«Okay, my crush is not doing so great, you win. But I’m working on it.»_  
_«All you do is pinching Eddie’s cheeks and stealing his scarves! That’s not ‘working on it’!»_  
_«It’s called progressing _, okay?»__  
  
Where was Richie now, anyway? You’d have expected him to be in the center of attention during a party. Especially one where people were drunk and trash hits were transmitting thanks to Ben’s IPod, uploaded next a pair of speakers. There was a banner hanging down the north wall that said “welcome to the Losers Club, 2018!” that all seven of them had put effort and passion in that real morning, each letter having a different color and shape. Stan thought that as wasted as he was he could as well take a picture of it and post it on his Instagram. Maybe with some catchy description he would’ve come out with later, because right now his head pulsed like a thousand pus-filled pimples. (Ugh, that was another awful metaphor he would’ve rather not imagined.) As he reached for his left jeans pocket to pick up his phone, he realized it wasn’t there. Not even in the right jeans pocket. He’d probably forgotten it at Richie’s house, after bickering with him for fifteen useless minutes about which crush was more oblivious: Bill or Eddie. What a meaningful conversation.  
  
«Bill» he sighed, returning to his previous position, except that now his palms and forehead were covered in sweat as a thousand pictures of William Denbrough flashed his mind. Was that really four glasses of beer’s game? Torturing him with his heart’s desires until his head exploded and his friends had to clean up what was left of his grey matter? Bill riding Silver with wind running through his red hair, Bill cleaning up his nose on the tissue Stan had loaned him, Bill changing his T-Shirt in Stan’s room that summer night when the Losers had taken a bath with their clothes on, and Bill couldn’t let his parents know he’d got fever another time. «And besides, Georgie risks to catch it too, and since he’s been terribly ill for weeks with bronchial pneumonia when he was in second grade, I’d really prefer for that not to happen.» So he’d slept by Stan’s side, and Stan had felt his heart smashing violently against his rib cage for seven hours straight.  
Straight? Straight where? He stopped being straight the day he fell in love with Bill.  
  
Well, he was kind of certain that he liked girls. He believed that Greta Bowie was attractive, really, not like Eddie who had pretended to have a crush on her for two years because coming out as gay scared the shit out of him. But being demisexual made things far more complicated – because you just don’t walk past attractive people feeling an urge to jump on them and make out with them for a couple of hours. That attraction is… _distant_ , Stan had started to call it. Most people were just walk-ons, he watched them leave with indifferent eyes; and felt uncomfortable when they touched him while talking or asked him about his passions without really knowing what it was all about.  
  
But then there was Bill. Oh, every time Bill touched his arm or his curls or his back, Stan felt a shiver of pleasure down his spine; every time Bill asked him about birdwatching, Stan’s eyes lighted up as he started to explain what made goldfinches so damn unique and worthwhile, despite everyone’s ignorance. «Did you know that female goldfinches build the nest all by themselves? I’ve watched them, Bill! With my own binoculars!» And Bill smiled and nodded and asked smart questions; his blue eyes shone with interest, creating a pleasant twitch in the boy’s stomach.  
  
_«That sounds gay to me.»_  
_«Yes, Richie, that’s kind the whole point of it. Thanks for making your brain do the hard work.»_  
_«Always here to help my fellow gays, man. Anyway, we need a serious talk about how to make you and Bill hook up this evening. And I have an answer: alcohol.»_  
_«Richard, I don’t want to ‘hook up’ with Bill. What does ‘hook up’ even mean? Do you want to ‘hook up’ with Eddie?»_  
_«Uhh, yes. And, well, ask him to marry me. But we’re only eighteen so I’ll stick with hooking up and telling him he’s pretty and buying him cornflakes and all that cheesy gay stuff, like beating the shit out of his mum.»_  
  
Yet despite him being a drama queen who lamented his grave conditions in the matter of love, Richie’s situation was far easier than Stan’s. Not even a dumb otter could speculate that Eddie wasn’t fond of Richie, and always reaching out for him in situations of distress, despite the apparent annoyance he displayed in most of the days – which was full of a huge number of insults covered in a coat of affection. Stan had seen them even holding hands a pair of times. If they still hadn’t moved from the ‘just friends’ situation, the blame was to give to their insecurity (even Richie’s self-approval was not as high as he pretended it to be) and to, well, Eddie’s mother. A 24-hours-active racist, self-righteous, homophobe individual who already openly disapproved Eddie’s crew. «She described you all as a robber nigger, a children-eating Jewish, a drug addict slut, a smoke-stinking vandal, and a pair of okay boys with holes in their shirts and a not-recommendable family situation» her son had counted it all on his five left fingers, sighing. « _”You should not be too close to them, baby. They’re all probably faggots”_. Yeah, sure, mum. Me telling her I’m gay would lead to me being taken into some catholic center for unruly kids. Repeating the Holy Mary ten times a day. Well maybe _there_ I would find a boyfriend, between the church seats.» The Losers had laughed, to break the tension and to cheer him up, and Stan remembered the look in Richie’s eyes under his sneering laugh: a mix of fear, worry and care for the boy he was in love with. How could Eddie not catch Richie’s feelings for him?  
  
In a similar way to Bill not catching Stan’s feelings for him, probably.  
  
«Five m-m-minutes to the first day of 2018 and l-look at us, half w-w-wasted, half missing» joked a voice beside him, bringing Stan sharply back to reality. As he turned his head to the direction of the sound – and it was Bill’s, and how could his voice be confused even in a thousand people crowd? It had its own tune, like a goldfinch’s song. Somehow, it was always about goldfinches.  
  
«I don’t even know where Richie is» he replied, speaking slowly enough not look as drunk as he really was. Still, he felt some words kneaded in his mouth as he spit them out. «Or Eddie, for that matter. Probably finally making out in some closet. Have you checked the kitchen pantry?»  
  
Even if a pantry and a closet were fairly different concepts, Bill laughed anyway. If things made sense in Stan’s mind, they probably did the same in Bill’s: it was a surprisingly reassuring idea, and the boy smiled as it settled peaceful into his mind.  
  
«S-so, who m-m-made you drink so much? Was it R-Richie?»  
  
«Who else? That asshole said that a couple beers should have been fine. Now my head pulses like…» _Don’t use the pus-filled pimples simile. It’s not cool. Don’t use it._ «… uh, like a light bulb. A really big and bright light bulb.»  
  
«I f-f-feel you. I mean, I think my c-c-condition is not as bad ‘cause I handle alcohol better than you, but I’ve been throu-through that. Do you n-need a glass of w-w-water?»  
  
_The only thing I need right now is to kiss you hard enough to forget that Richie pissed me off and that you don’t even know if you like boys or not and that making me a queer Jewish was probably the worst idea God has had since he let Holocaust happen._ «Uh, yeah, that would be actually great, thanks.»  
  
As Bill stood up to reach the drinks table and pour some water into two red plastic glasses, Stan realized that Beverly had stopped dancing. She was now standing in the middle of the room, naked feet on the wool carpet, her ginger hair – darker than Bill’s – all messy because of her clumsy dance. She was looking at Bill in a soft, lost way that Stan knew really well: it was the same look he himself reserved to Bill.  
  
«S-s-sometimes I wish I was b-brave enough to tell her ev-ev-ev- _everything_ » Bill suddenly said after he’d come back with their two glasses of water. They were sitting in the same places as before, legs swinging further and back as they listened to some Britney Spears song Stan didn’t know the title of. He didn’t listen to a lot of music, to be true.  
  
«What do you mean? Tell her what?»  
  
«Yo-you know. I l-l-l-like her, I want to da-da-date her, I want to go to pr-prom d-d-d-dance with her and send her a b-b-bun-bunch of letters when we’re gonna be in d-d-d-different colleges.»  
  
Stan sighed, maybe a bit too loud, but he didn’t care. There it was, that familiar feeling in the stomach that wasn't like a thousand butterflies taking flight and reaching the end of the rainbow – it was more like a possessed boxer kicking him in the guts for ninety-nine times. He took a long sip of his glass, fresh water rolling down his burning throat and caressing his belly as a reassuring touch. He could handle this. He’d handled this for years.  
  
«Do you th-th-think it would be cool if I asked her to d-d-dance? I know, the music’s n-not the greatest thing ever, but we could ma-manage to make a f-f-f-few steps, uh, to-toge-together.» Bill’s stuttering got worse as he proceeded in talking about Beverly, meaning that he was feeling really nervous. But every time he and Stan spent time together, he talked normally, with the usual amount of stutters. The boxer threw another half dozen kicks in Stan’s stomach, just to make sure he felt like throwing up.  
  
_No, dance with me instead, please. We can turn on One Direction or Justin Bieber or whatever shit you like, I don’t care, just hold me and caress my curls like you do when you’re thinking and maybe hold my hand, I don’t even fucking know._ «Go for it, she’s waiting for you» he said instead, gesturing to the only girl in the room, who was now stretching her arms and lifting her heels, like she was trying to touch the ceiling with her painted fingers. Stan and Eddie had tried to put nail polish on their fingernails, once – it had turned out in them making a mess in the Kaspbrak’s bathroom and cleaning it up as fast as they could before Eddie’s mother could come back from work and decide to move with her son in some forgotten region, like Siberia.  
  
Bill sent him a smile of deep gratitude, and that caused a strange feeling to run in Stan’s veins: even if he was in pain, electric shakes of pleasure sent a sparkle in his blood causing him to blush and look away. Somewhere in his mind, he felt reassured by the fact that he could blame the excess of beer for his blush. It was not a gay move at all. He should’ve talked about it with Richie. Again, where the hell was Richie?  
  
As if he was in a movie, a distant spectator who was eating popcorn at the cinema, he watched Bill standing up, walking to Beverly, stuttering a few sentences to her while his face turned the same color of a bloody sunset. There was this little voice, far in Stan’s mind, that shouted to go grab Bill and kiss him, before it was too late, so he could finally tell him how he felt, so they could start 2018 in a great way, together. But it was a stupid, stupid voice, so he just ignored and remained still, head slightly falling on his left shoulder, while Bill took Beverly’s hand and walked to Ben’s IPod to change singer. In the veil of silent depression Stan felt that was surrounding him, he caught Ben Hanscom’s look, and it was like an unspoken conversation.  
  
_«You feeling like a miserable invisible being too?»_  
_«Yep. Wanna go grab some alcohol and amplify our headaches so we can forget about our crushes flirting with each other?»_  
_«That’s a great idea.»_  
  
Somehow, everyone in The Losers Club knew about their friends’ feelings. Except for the subjects of those feelings – they were oblivious. Beverly excluded, ‘cause just like everyone else, she was aware Ben had a crush on her since they were twelve. Too bad she didn’t love him the same way.  
  
Why was teenage drama shit so fucking complicated?  
  
«What are we even doing?» Mike suddenly exclaimed when Stan and Ben were already taking the first sip of whiskey from another pair of plastic glasses. Jumping up from the floor he was rolling in, and clapping his hands, he shot a look at the clock that was hanging next to their Welcome 2018 banner and widened his eyes. «It’s one minute to midnight! One minute to January First! We should do the countdown, right now! Okay guys, let’s start following the clock hands: _fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven, fifty-six-_ »  
  
And then he was blatantly interrupted.  
  
«Just fucking listen to me one time, will you? We’re _not_ telling them about this!»  
  
«But that doesn’t make a fucking sense! They’re our best friends, what else would you tell them? Which underwear you chose to wear this morning?»  
  
«Do you have any idea what my mum would say if she found out about this? It would be my no-return ticket to Kansas.»  
  
«Or, I don’t know, maybe your chance to move out of that fucking house, giving that bitch a middle finger and settling in by Mike’s, or Bill’s, or in my house? You’re eighteen, Jesus. Live your life.»  
  
«I have no job, my school grades are not high like yours, my mum and my aunts are the only people left in my family, I just can’t drop this, okay? I’m asking you time.»  
  
«But it’s Stan and Bev and Bill and Mike and Ben, Eds! Best people you’ve ever met in your whole life!»  
  
«I’m just scared, Chee –»  
  
«Well, then grow the fuck up. I’ve loved you since we were in eight grade and I’m tired of pretending it’s not a big deal!»  
  
The basement had turned completely silent. Bill had turned the music off. Mike, and Ben and Stan who had shortly followed him to stop paying attention to the center of the room, had stopped their countdown to fourty-eight and were now looking at each other in awkward silence. The voices had gotten louder and louder and now it was clear as transparent water that the obvious owners were standing on the other side of the basement door. They heard fingers working with the door knob, a slight push – and a ‘ouch, kaspbrak’ in response – and there they were, stepping in the room: Richie Tozier, with really messy black curls and pending red glasses, dragging by his left arm a reluctant, frowning Eddie Kaspbrak, which as soon as the move was made tore his arm off his friend’s hold and crossed them both on his chest. The whole room was looking at them – Bill and Beverly, frozen in the middle of their dance to a The Police hit, had a little mischievous smile on their faces; Mike and Ben frowned with a strange sneer; Stan just felt like he was looking exasperated. He decided that he actually was. And also very grateful to God for a bunch of reasons.  
  
«U-uh,» Richie stuttered, looking really similar to Bill. «I’m not even asking if you guys heard anything, right? Especially the last part? Where I say _things_?» No response to his quite rhetorical question. Eddie sighed and pressed a hand on his forehead, like he was going to faint any moment. «I guess I wasn’t expecting all five of you to follow our soap opera. I wanted to make it a big surprise. But hey, here we are!» He made a pirouette, threw his hands up and bowed. «Eds and I are engaged! Show them the ring I gave you, sweetheart!»  
  
Yet Eddie wasn’t really smiling. He looked away, pressing his arms heavier on his chest, and made a noise of complaint. «Shut your Trashmouth, for once.»  
  
Richie’s cheerfulness suddenly dropped. He sharply turned in Eddie’s direction and pushed his glasses up his nose: and after six years of being his friend Stan knew well that gesture meant him preparing for something that made him nervous. Something important. «Okay, you know what? No. I’m not gonna shut my Trashmouth. I can do that when I say everyday bullshit, when I start wearing bras in shopping malls and flirt with dummies, when I tell teachers they look like Denzel Krocker from _Fairly Oddparents_ and I write in my essays about how many cigarettes I’ve smoked in a week. But not now, Eddie. Not now.» He sounded terrifyingly serious: last time Stan had seen him like this, was that early September, when Stan had confessed him he still thought about dying sometimes.  
  
He remembered pressing a pillow on his own head, feeling mad at everything that moved both outside and inside his mind. He remembered shouting to Richie to go fuck himself, or go fuck Eddie since he was clearly rooting for it, because he wanted to be left alone in his misery – didn’t want people touching his back, caressing his hair, speaking in a soft careful voice, not even Bill. And he remembered Richie standing up beside his bed and holding his fists, telling him in a very loud and determined voice how much of a fucking amazing person he was, how much he fucking changed his life, gave him sunlight, to him and to Mike and Ben and Bill literally all the others, including his parents, his family. «I want you to think about everything you care for, dipshit. All of us, your mum, your dad, God, everyone you love loves you the fucking same, and would give their life for you in the same way you’d give your life to them; it’s all a fucking circle, us holding hands and getting out of shit together, like we did when I was fifteen and taking a lot more meds than now. And no, you’re not pushing me away. I’m not letting you jump off your window because, guess what asshole, I love you, you’re my brother, and you can scream, shout, hit me, insult me, I don’t fucking care, I will still be by your side. _We_ will still be by your side.»  
  
Truth was, sometimes Stan got scared by how much Richie felt. Stan’s emotions were covered under a coat of sarcasm most of the time, that was true, but he still took his time to express them whenever he felt like exploding. But Richie just hid, and hid, and hid everything inside jokes and gags for weeks and months until he just threw everything up.  
  
This time was just like early September. Richie took a deep breath and touched Eddie’s left shoulder with his index and middle finger, and it was a surprisingly shy, careful movement Stan was hesistant to believe could belong to Richie’s chattering, noisy and hustling figure. «Do you remember the first time we’ve met? It was at the junkyard, in 2011. I thought you were fucking annoying, to be honest: you kept complaining about nonexistent illnesses and about your asthma and about your mum not wanting you to get hurt. I spent all day rolling eyes and I remember that I thought “ _here, I’ve found the guy I’m going to hate for the rest of my life_ ”. I really could not depict me being friends with you. It sounded absurd.» Eddie’s eyebrows rose in an expression of both surprise and nuisance. His thoughts probably were along the lines of, “ _this is the love confession you’re going to give me? I can’t say I’m surprised_ ”. But Richie kept talking. «But then of course we had to hang out together, because you were Bill’s friend, I was Bev’s friend, and they were friends with each other. So I had to put up with you for what I thought was going to be only weeks. And without even realizing it, I started to take a like in you. And soon your laugh wasn’t anymore pathetic, it sounded like a bird’s chirping – sorry to be a heretic, Stanley man. And I noticed the smart things you said, and the feelings behind your eyes. One time when your mother came to pick you up I wanted to throw a pan at her. Funny thing, because after a couple years we went to high school and I started researching about myself and it turned out pretty clear I was pansexual.» The pun made almost all of them roll their eyes, but at that point, they were smiling. Except for Eddie – he had a thoughtful, almost defensive expression.  
  
«And pansexual meant I could like girls, and I could like boys – I could like anyone. I could even like Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Spaghetti, Eds. And everything came out so fucking clear – I wasn’t having fever when you smiled and I felt an army of gnomes dancing the Macarena in my stomach. It was ‘just’ a crush. And then… we started a big path in that direction, right? You talked about how Greta was pretty and pretended to be straight and all that fifteen years old shit, but at the end you were looking for my hand the same way I was looking for yours.» Now that he’d started getting into a huge speech, he didn’t seem like he was ever going to end it. Losing himself in memories and past pain. «And then you came out as gay last year and I thought, fucking great! Easy from here! But we’re fucking idiots, Eds. Look at us. Hiding from each other, from our friends. From the world that, holy crap, should not have the right to bend us!»  
  
«Stop pretending it’s a card game I don’t want to take part in» Eddie said. He’d let Richie talk for so much time that by now his voice sounded like an alien element, as little and trembling it was compared to the other boy’s strong words. «Telling you guys I’m gay was a thing I had to do. You already knew it anyway. But I can’t let myself have a boyfriend, okay? My mum, she’d –»  
  
«You can’t let that ass control your entire life! Your identity! Your feelings!»  
  
«But it happens anyway. Look, just for you guys to know, a hour ago Richie and I were in Bill's room and we kissed. And it was amazing. But being in love with you, Tozier – it is a pretty fucking exhausting hobby.»  
  
«I know, I’m an awesome Trashmouth» Richie replied, but Stan could see his cheeks coloring with soft red. «So what about turning it into a little less exhausting hobby by, I don’t know, going on dates and stuff? We don’t have to rub everything on your mum’s face, you know. We can go to kitchen lessons together, learn how to plant flowers that don’t die after five days, study for our college acceptance exams, pause the school stress with some good lovely sex –»  
  
«I think we should put this to votes» Beverly suddenly said, and everyone’s attention, Richie’s included, was drawn to her cheerful proposal. Stan suspected it was a smart move to distract them from the fact Eddie’s face right now looked really similar to a blooming red tulip. Talking about flowers. «We’re your friends. We’ve seen you guys drool for each other since middle school.»  
  
«That’s a good idea, actually. I love you nerds and I have a couple words to say about this» Ben chimed in, shooting a glance to Beverly, who replied with a huge smile Stan knew had just made young Hanscom the happiest man on Earth.  
  
«You guys already know how I feel about this whole thing but yes, count me in» Mike happily added.  
  
Stan sent a look to Bill and felt surprised and electrified by the fact his friend had chosen that right moment to look at him, too. They smiled at each other; and despite everything that had happened in the past ten minutes, or twenty, or thirty, a nightingale started to sing in Stan’s head. «St-Stan and I don’t e-e-even have to c-comment» Bill said, and Stan saw Eddie rolling his eyes at the comment. He was pretty sure he heard a malicious « _you talked to him about me, Eds?_ » followed by an exasperated « _Stan is looking at you like you’re wearing teddy bear underwear, Chee. Don’t lecture me, you of all people._ »  
  
«Okay, so!» Beverly clapped her hands, looked around herself and found a convenient chair to climb on. She was now standing in front of them like a show hostess, feeling all pumped in her newly acquired role. Both Bill and Ben were looking at her with their eyes shining. The nightingale in Stan’s head probably had a heart attack and died. «This question is addressed to all of you lovely lords, except for Richie and Eddie, of course, who can spend this time by holding hands and sucking their faces. Okay, so, guys! Big topic of the evening: should these two eternal lovebirds give up their love because of society’s – and Eddie’s mother’s – rules? Raise your hands if your vote is yes!»  
  
The room hosts remained completely still. There was a red balloon floating in the air in a corner, rising up to the ceiling, and Beverly shot it an angry look, as if the balloon had risen an invisible hand.  
  
But then a smile painted almost immediately her face again. «The verdict is pretty clear, but let’s be bureaucratic here. Raise your hand, instead, if you believe that the above mentioned lovebirds should not hide at all, but instead come out of this room, go have a nice date at 2 am where they can stick a dozen breadsticks into their purses, and then run home under the rain like the protagonists of a romantic parody!»  
  
There was a loud laugh hitting the walls and filling the air as everyone jokingly threw their hands up; Beverly first, letting her orange sleeve roll down her arm, followed right after by Mike, who raised both his hands and started to clap. Ben looked at him proudly as he did the same; regarding Bill, he latched Stan’s fingers with his own and lifted them up toward the ceiling. A violent, beautiful shake twisted and twirled in Stan’s spine, Stan’s veins, Stan’s entire being – it was him and Bill, supporting their best friends being in love with each other, with their hands intertwined, smiling as though nothing in the world could ever be wrong, not now, not ever. And he thought, _what a magnificent New Years Eve it would be, me telling Bill I love him, and him telling me he loves me too, that he’s just been scared all this time, but we can make it, things will be easier if we just keep holding hands_. But it was Eddie and Richie’s night, and Bill had feelings towards Beverly. That realistic thought could not really stop the adrenaline in Stan’s blood, though.  
  
«This looks like a reality show, are there cameras on top of the fridge?» commented Eddie with an annoyed voice – yet right now he was smiling, even though he was clearly fighting not to show it.  
  
«Yup, Kaspbrak, everyone is watching us while eating popcorn, so let’s give them the best New Year show of the century» replied Richie, and fell to his knees, taking both of Eddie’s hands. Beverly faked a gasp of surprise. Well, maybe it wasn’t totally fake. «Edward Kaspbrak, will you do me the incommensurable honor to be my boyfriend and put up with my shit everyday? I promise I will be your sugar daddy and buy you fridge stickers in return.»  
  
«You’re a fucking prick» was the only thing that Eddie said in return. But he was not trying to pretend to be angry anymore. He lifted his hands, so that Richie was encouraged to get up, and as soon as he did it Eddie, without letting go of their hold, leaned in and kissed his now-to-be-called boyfriend. That sounded pretty much like a yes, and Stan heard Mike saying «Took you long enough! Nobody ever believed you when in eight grade you didn’t want to drink from the same bottle as Tozier!»  
  
«This idiot has been pestering me for years with his awkward gay crush for this awkward gay guy» Stan sighed, pointing at Richie, but there was so much happiness inside him right now, that faking to be exasperated seemed a weirdly hard task. «I can’t even cheer for him, I just have to write this moment down so I can confront it with yesterday’s clamorous _“I’m gonna die virgin and alone_ ”. Oh, and should I mention what you said two hours ago? " _My crush is not doing so great_ "? Sure thing, Trashmouth.»  
  
Richie’s middle finger waved in response as his kiss with Eddie got deeper and more involved was an answer significant enough.  
  
  
  
«No more whiskey to drink?» Ben asked him, sitting beside him on the porch stairway. According to Stan’s wrist clock – he’d worn it since his Bar Mitzvah, had even renewed it when it had gotten too small –, it was half past one in the morning. They were both wearing heavy coats, scarves and gloves, to protect themselves from the night cold.  
  
Stan shook his head and showed him the glass of soda he was drinking from: no more alcohol, he’d had enough for an evening. Examining the surrounding yard with tired eyes, he saw Eddie, Richie and Mike talking in a low voice, while the last two mentioned smoked from the same cigarette; on the other side of the small Denbrough garden, Bill and Beverly were caressing each other’s faces, probably confessing to each other in a less blatant and cheesy way than Richie and Eddie’s. Stan sighed. Again.  
  
«You know, at one point I just stopped considering it unfair» Ben commented the scene, rolling the whiskey glass in his hands. «It just happens. You like them, they don’t like you in return, you accept it and live your life. Feeling like they deserve your love anyway. ‘cause they’re just beautiful people.»  
  
«You’re a beautiful person as well, Ben.»  
  
«Maybe, but even if I am, that means I’m able to give her love even if I get none in return, right?»  
  
Stan pressed his lips together and looked away, towards Bill. His headache was gone, but so was his previous excitement and illogical happiness: right now, he felt kind of empty. And sad. And lonely. He wanted to throw it all out to Ben – wanted to know how he coped with that horrible feeling of solitude and abandonment – but when he met his eyes and opened his mouth to talk, he found out that words just weren’t enough. «Do you have a Winston?» he asked instead. He was done with being drunk, but maybe some minutes spent by assuming tobacco and staring at the night sky would be a good substitution.  
  
So that’s what they did. Smoking in silence, scarves softly shaken by the wind’s strength. Then Stan lowered his own stub and said, «I just want to throw my head in a water tub and stay still until I lose conscience.»  
  
«Don’t say that.»  
  
«Not saying that would make no difference. I still mean it.»  
  
Ben took a deep breath. «I know this probably sounds really annoying to hear, but he still loves you, you know it, right? He didn’t choose to have a crush on Bev, like she didn’t choose to have a crush on her – like we didn’t choose to have a crush on them. But what we all get to choose is who we’re friends with. Who we would die for, in a heartbeat. And trust me, he would throw himself in hell to keep you happy and safe.»  
  
Stan smiled bitterly and tossed his cigarette away. «Yeah, that’s a thing Big Bill would do.»  
  
It didn’t take long for people to leave. First Mike on his bike, who lived right a few houses across the street; then Richie and Eddie, probably planning to stay overnight at the Tozier’s; then Ben, to whom Beverly, who spent the night by Bill, said goodbye with a kiss on the cheek; Stan left right after him.  
  
«T-t-take care, Stan The M-Man.»  
«Don’t worry, Big Bill. I’ll still be alive tomorrow.»  
«Send me a m-m-message when you’re home a-a-anyways. I’m always wo-worried about you. And I l-l-love you – you know that, r-right?»  
«I know. I love you too.»  
  
_Happy 2018_ , Stan whispered to the night as he stepped on the sidewalk on his own, hands thrown in his jeans pockets. Despite the hints of tears behind his eyes, a small, microscopic smile couldn’t help but paint his lips. 


End file.
